


Come into the Light

by emjee (MerryHeart)



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/M, I've been on tumblr for two days and already this has happened, eros and psyche au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 13:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10618020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryHeart/pseuds/emjee
Summary: After Eros is shot with one of his own arrows, he falls deeply in love with a young woman who wants more than the life her small village can give her. Cursed by his mother (who is Not Amused with his lovesickness), Eros can never let his bride see his face, but curiosity and blossoming love make it harder and harder to hide in the darkness.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The Eros and Psyche (or Cupid and Psyche) story is actually one of our earlier versions of the Beauty-and-the-Beast-type tale. Thus, it adapts itself really well to an AU because it's actually reverse adaptation, if that makes sense.  
> Even though our one extant written copy of this myth is Roman, I'm choosing to set it in Greece and go with Greek names because I like the Greeks better and it's my fic, so I do what I want. I don't have a specific date in mind, but this is set in the Hellenistic period, before the common era.  
> A note on names--I've chosen Greek names that correspond to the meaning or the first letter of names in Beauty and the Beast. Belle, therefore, becomes Aglaia, named after the Grace who represents Beauty. Don't worry though--in later chapters there will be call-outs to the names we're so familiar with, I promise.  
> Enjoy, my friends.

It had been years since the God of Love last visited the tiny village, miles outside of Athens. He wasn’t even sure it had a proper name, though its residents must have called it something.

But perhaps not. It was very small, after all, and for most of the people who lived there, it must have been the center of the world, and the center of the world did not require a name. It simply _was_.

Whatever the status of its nomenclature, it had provided Eros with considerable amusement in the past, and when he found himself bored one day at the beginning of autumn, he decided to pay it a visit and see how his past handiworks had progressed.

The harvest would be brought in soon, and the village was swarming with people as they made preparations, constructing storehouses and repairing tools. From where he hovered above the ground, powerful wings beating to keep him aloft, Eros could see that broad young man, Gerasimos, whose chiton stretched across his shoulders as he tossed threshing tools into the back of a cart as though they were feathers. He seemed completely oblivious to the stares of Leonidas, whom Eros distinctly remembered shooting with an arrow the last time he’d been here, knowing Gerasimos would be the next person he saw. The man was clearly still infatuated, but nothing entertaining had yet come of it.

Gerasimos looked over his shoulder to toss a winning smile at three sisters standing nearby. They simultaneously rolled their eyes and continued their conversation.

 _Challenge accepted_.

Eros nocked three arrows at once—what was the fun of this job if he couldn’t show off a little, after all?—and released the bowstring, sending an arrow directly into the heart of each sister. Their conversation ceased; they sighed and stared longingly at Gerasimos, who now seemed thoroughly uninterested.

Eros smirked. _Isn’t that how it always goes_?

“You bastard.”

The smirk widened as he looked down to find Artemis, firmly on the ground and as invisible to humans as he was, with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.

“Hello, Auntie.”

Her expression turned thunderous. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

The annoyance radiating off her only fed his high spirits. “I’ll stop calling you that when you stop acting like it. By the Graces, for someone who looks about fifteen, I think you’re the oldest woman I’ve ever met.”

“For someone who looks passably like an adult, your behavior shockingly resembles that of a five-year-old.”

“What have I done to you now, old woman?”

“I wanted those girls for my hunting band.”

Eros shrugged. “There are plenty of girls in Greece.”

“Not like those three. Clever, courageous, with a deep understanding of sisterhood. And you’ve turned them into fools.”

“I don’t turn people into fools, Auntie, love does.”

“I suppose next you’ll tell me that sickness doesn’t kill people, it’s the cessation of their heartbeat?”

“Sounds about right. Ask your brother; I’m sure he’ll agree with me.”

“You’ve made him look like an idiot for love too many times for him to agree with you about anything.”

“Come now, he knows I’m just doing my job. He always was the more reasonable twin.”

Artemis’ hands moved like lightning. Almost before Eros could blink, her bow was in her hands, nocked with an arrow whose fletching matched the arrows in his own quiver.

The ichor in his veins ran cold. “Where did you get that?”

Her smile was serene. “It’s not so pleasant, is it, being on the other side of the arrow.”

He swallowed. “Artemis, listen to me. You can’t. You don’t understand it. Give it back, please.” He wondered if he could draw fast enough to threaten her with an arrow to her own heart. The maiden goddess, given love’s wound. She would do anything to avoid it.

“You move, I shoot,” she said from the ground. “You’d never beat me to it. Your skills were not forged in the heat of battle. You know nothing of what it is like to shoot or die.”

 _Neither do you, you immortal termagant_. He decided now was not the best time to talk back to an angry goddess who was poised to make his day very complicated.

He should have stayed at home in Cyprus.

“Please,” he asked again, deciding to appeal to what mattered to Artemis most: duty. “I won’t be able to do my job.”

 _Whiz-thunk_.

The pain of the arrow sinking into his heart was one with the pain of hitting the ground as he tumbled from the air. He kept his eyes firmly closed, knowing that the next thing he saw would capture his heart. It would not do to fall in love with his maiden-goddess aunt.

“Finally,” said Artemis from somewhere above him, “you’re beginning to understand.” He felt a gentle breeze against his back and knew she was gone.

The arrow had dissolved into thin air. He was going to have to get up sometime, he knew, and he was going to have to open his eyes. He said a quick prayer that whoever he looked on would be beautiful, at least, and his eyes fluttered open.

Someone on Olympus had been listening.

She was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen, and he didn’t think that was just the magic arrow talking. Her skin was freckled, her shining brown hair bound up in strips of cloth to keep it out of her face. She had long lashes framing clever eyes, and a mouth that probably dimpled when she smiled. She was, he thought, even lovelier than Aphrodite.

That probably _was_ the magic arrow talking, and he told himself not to think quite so loud. That last thing he needed to do was incur his mother’s wrath.

It was possibly too late for that. She was unlikely to be pleased by this turn of events.

Eros set that thought aside for later and returned his attention to the young woman who sat in the middle of the square, just a few yards in front of him. She tinkering with some contraption and trying to ignore the attentions of Gerasimos, who appeared to be trying to engage her in conversation.

“I suppose you’ll need help getting your crops in,” said Gerasimos, clenching and unclenching his hands to make sure she noticed how the muscles of his upper arms stood out.

She noticed no such thing, because her gaze remained on her contraption as she answered, “We’ll be fine, thank you. I’ve been working on something to help make the job easier, and my father and I are both stronger than we look.”

“But what will happen to you, Aglaia, when he’s gone? You’ll need someone to look after you then.” Gerasimos reached out and tried to take her hand, but she slapped him away.

“I did not say you could touch me.”

He stiffened. Eros saw a muscle twitch in his jaw, but the young man rather surprisingly kept his temper. “If you change your mind,” he ground out, “you know where to find me.”

“I wouldn’t expect that, if I were you.”

Eros approached her as Gerasimos stalked away. He was irresistibly drawn to her. She saw nothing, as he was still invisible, so he came as close as he dared and sat on the ground before her, staring shamelessly as she bit her lower lip, considering what adjustments to make on her harvest contraption.

He sat there for an hour, motionless, adoring her as she became more and more absorbed by her work. He could have fallen in love with her even without the arrow, he thought. Couldn’t he?

Or would he have made a joke of her, seen her only as the next woman he could cause to make herself a fool for a man?

He pushed the thought aside and returned to his contemplation until she began to gather her tools and pack them away. He stood, knowing where he needed to head next.

She looked up as a breeze brushed across her face, the result of his wings carrying him up off the ground. He gave her one long, last look as he lingered above her. She turned her face up and—though she couldn’t have known it—she looked directly at him.

His heart gave a powerful _thump_ , and he darted away to Cyprus.

 

Aglaia returned her tinkering tools the cottage she shared with her father and set off for a brisk walk over the steep hills. In moments of distress, her first instinct was always to run—not away, but toward. Toward _what_ , she wished she knew. She just needed to be…not _here_.

Her village was tiny and insignificant. Hardly anyone there wanted to admit it, because so few of them ever left, but she was as sure of that fact as she was of her own name. She was not meant to pass her days doing the washing, married to lout like Gerasimos who was strong but utterly clueless.

Her father had traveled, before they had come here. He told her stories of Athens, and Thebes, and Alexandria, which he had only read about. He recited poetry and told her the stories of the gods and heroes. The heroines, to her disappointment, seemed few and far between.

Aglaia reached the top of the hill and looked down on the small village that, against her will, was the only home she knew.

She couldn’t stay where she was much longer. She was going to go absolutely mad.

 

Eros stood at the entrance to his mother’s chamber in her favorite seaside villa. She liked to pass the days of autumn here before spending the winter on Olympus, away from the stormy seas. There was no sign of storms today; instead, the sun shone and a gentle breeze blew in, carrying the scent of myrtle and sea salt.

“Darling,” Aphrodite cried when she noticed him. She was reclining on a couch, surrounded by handmaidens. “Leave us,” she commanded, and the six young women brushed past Eros as they made their exit. His mother’s servants had always been entirely off limits. He had never cared before, as he was usually having too much fun making mischief elsewhere, and now there was only one woman who occupied his mind.

And it was of that woman that he needed to speak.

He knelt before his mother. She raised an eyebrow. “This is unusual,” she drawled, “but not entirely unwelcome.”

“I’ve come to ask your blessing, madam.”

His head was bowed. He could not bring himself to lift it, not even at the sound of her silvery laugh. “Most unusual indeed. Come, Eros, this is not how you and I are. Come sit on my couch and tell me stories of your adventures.”

“That’s just the thing, Mother. My adventures today…” He took a deep breath and steeled himself for a reaction he would likely find deeply unpleasant. “Mother, I am in love. I come to ask your blessing to marry the girl who now has my heart.”

He heard the rustle of his mother’s peplos as she sat up. “In _love_?”

He gave a short sigh, his patience already starting to wear thin. “Yes, Mother, in love, I believe you are familiar with the concept? It is something you and I deal with every day.”

“Yes,” she snapped, “and it is exactly your job to _deal_ with it, to spread it, not to succumb to it yourself.”

“And why not? You do!”

Aphrodite rolled her eyes. “Not permanently.”

“How many centuries have you been with Father, again?”

“That’s different,” she declared. “Your father is a god, and even we are not constant to each other. Liaisons with mortals are one thing, but _marriage_?”

“Dionysus wed Ariadne.”

“Your uncle hardly plays by other people’s rules.”

“Mother, if you knew this girl…She’s beautiful, and brilliant. Her cleverness deceives all others, I can tell. And I’m sure her devotion does as well.”

Aphrodite reached for a hand mirror lying on the table beside her couch. “Show me the girl.” The mirror glowed with a soft light and Eros saw his mother’s face twist into a scowl. “Is this her?” She turned to mirror toward him.

“Yes, that’s the girl. Aglaia.” He met his mother’s gaze with beseeching eyes. “You are not pleased by her?”

“I’ve been watching this girl for a while now. She prefers the handicrafts of Athena to my heart-binding ribbons. She’s been staving off the attentions of a young village man for years.”

“Gerasimos?” Eros said, his temper rising at the very thought of the man. “He’s a crude man. He doesn’t understand her. They would never be happy together.”

His mother gave a soft, cruel laugh. “And you would?”

Eros stood, his filial instincts beginning to fade. Coming here had been a mistake. “I do not need your blessing,” he declared. “I am a god of Mount Olympus, grandson of Zeus. I wield the arrows of love, and I will make decisions about my own heart.”

“Will you, now?” said Aphrodite, sounding bored. She leaned back against the couch. “You’ve never had an interest in your own heart before. This all seems rather sudden, doesn’t it?” Eros said nothing. “I had a visitor today before you came.” Her nose wrinkled in a tell-tale fashion. The sour expression she wore was reserved for one Olympian, and one Olympian only.

 _Styx and damnation._ The huntress had beaten him to Cyprus.

“How did she come to have one of your arrows?” Aphrodite asked. “You’re usually so responsible with them.”

“I don’t know,” Eros said shortly. “But here we are. I am in love. I shall be married.”

“You shall not,” insisted Aphrodite. “Unless you wish to suffer my wrath.”

Eros laughed, low and taunting. “I’ve been the agent of your wrath for centuries, Mother. What could you do that I’ve not seen before?”

Aphrodite set her mouth and turned her full gaze on him. Her godly aura began to glow; the room filled with the overpowering scent of myrtle and roses. “ _Fine_ ,” she pronounced, her voice suffused with the power of the gods, “ _you may marry your country craftswoman, but she may never see your face. Your love shall exist in the darkness, and should she ever look on you, she shall be banished from your side._ ” Thunder rumbled in the distance. The curse was pronounced, and it was binding.

Eros stared down at his mother in horror. She smiled and laughed, perfect and infuriating. “No mortal can love without a beautiful form,” she said, “and she will never know how lovely you are. Oh, my Eros, don’t you see?” She reached out to stroke his cheek, but he turned his head away. “She’s a _human._ She doesn’t deserve you.”

Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the villa. When he reached the seaside, he unfolded his wings and took flight toward Delphi.

 

Eros found Apollo seated on an outcropping on the side of a mountain that overlooked his temple. He held his lyre in his lap, strumming it absentmindedly as he hummed to himself.

“Uncle.”

Apollo turned with a start, his face breaking into a grin as he recognized Eros.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite nephew!” He leapt up and pulled Eros into a perhaps overly enthusiastic embrace.

“This is a surprisingly pleasant reception,” Eros choked as Apollo continued to compress his ribcage. “Unless this is your form of payback for the grief I’ve given you over the years.”  
Apollo finally released him and slung his lyre over his shoulder. “All is forgiven, I’ve told you.”

“Ah. It’s just, I, ah—I saw your sister today and she indicated there might still be some bad blood. I couldn’t tell if you were bluffing the last time we spoke.” Eros had formerly found it intensely amusing to shoot Apollo—the archer god himself—with arrows of love that caused him to chase after various pretty women who wanting nothing to do with him, and usually turned themselves into trees to escape his advances.

It wasn’t great for a god’s self-esteem. It had also been Eros’ favorite pastime for several decades.

“I would like to formally apologize for all of the stupid things my arrows have made you do,” Eros said. “Somehow Artemis got her hands on one, and I made the mistake of angering her this morning.”

“No,” Apollo breathed. “She didn’t.”

“She did.”

“How did she even come across one? You keep those things closer than your own secrets.”

“I don’t know how she did it.”

“Well, she always was the cleverer one.” Apollo sat at the edge of the outcropping and gestured for Eros to join him. “So you’re having a taste of your own medicine?”

“I am. And who better to come to, I thought, than the god of medicine, who also has an exceptional amount of experience with this sort of thing.”

“All thanks to you, you blighter. My usual medicines won’t work here, of course.”

“That’s not why I came. I need a different sort of help.”

The two gods sat, looking for all the world like two mortal youths conversing at sunset, and discussed their plan until the last light disappeared.

 

That night, the priestess of the village had a dream. She awoke with a start, in a cold sweat, and assembled the villagers in the marketplace as soon as the sun rose.

“The god Apollo demands a sacrifice!” she cried, hurrying her words before the villagers could drown out her voice with their wails. “I know not what we have done to offend him, but he demands a young woman give herself up for the sake of the village, or a wicked dragon such as none of us have seen will wreak havoc on our lives.”

“A sacrifice to the death?” someone shouted.

“No,” said the priestess, but her voice was hesitant. “The young woman will be…borne away. She is to throw herself off the outcropping that looks over the valley, and the West Wind will bear her away.”

“That’s suicide!” a man yelled in outrage.

“That is the will of the gods,” the priestess pronounced, her voice choked. “And, my poor friends…I have seen what will become of us if we do not follow the orders of the gods. Fire and blood, screaming and terror, your children devoured, their bones crunched like so many twigs underfoot.”

“And how do you expect someone to volunteer their child to be thrown off a cliff?” asked a mother, clutching her small daughter by the shoulders.

“I don’t,” sighed the priestess. “The god has stipulated which young woman he wants.” She craned her neck, searching the crowd. “Aglaia.” A wail arose, not from Aglaia, but from her father. “I am sorry, Marinos. It is the will of the gods.”

“A pox on the will of the gods!” Marinos spit.

“Quiet, man,” a nearby villager snapped. “Do you want to damn us all?”

“What kind of a god deprives a man of his only child?” He clasped Aglaia close. She wound her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

“It’s going to be alright,” she whispered.

“You can’t mean you’re going to go through with this. Will of the gods or no will of the gods, I can’t lose you. I’ve already lost the only other love in my life.”

Aglaia framed Marinos’ face with her hands. “You will not lose me.” Her father’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Listen. I will find my way back to you. I swear it.”

“It should be me. I am old, I am tired…”

“You’re not allowed to go anywhere yet, do you hear me? It’s me the gods want, and it’s me they’re going to get, and when I’m done with them, I will find you, even if I have to go to the Underworld and back. You lost everything the last time Athens angered the gods, Papa.” It was something she could barely remember, but she’d heard enough stories around the village and pieced the timeline together enough to be reasonably sure. All it took was one arrogant leader forgetting to make his sacrifices, and the city was consumed by illness. Marinos took his small daughter and fled, but his beloved Thalia hadn’t been strong enough. He hadn’t even been able to give her proper funeral rights. “You are not going to lose everything again because of me.”

“If you go,” Marinos whispered, his hands coming to his face to cover his daughters’, “I will have lost everything.”

Aglaia shook her head. “You have to trust me.”

“Aglaia.” The priestess’ voice rose above the crowd. “What do you say to the will of the gods?”

This was the not the way she had planned to escape her confines. She had been thinking of how to convince her father to let her travel, to come with her. She’d never wanted his heart to break because of her freedom.

 _Freedom_. This wasn’t even going to be that, really. She would be at the whim of some god or monster who wanted Athena knew what with her.

She straightened her spine and willed Athena to steel her nerves. She would throw herself over a cliff, ride the West Wind to wherever it bore her, demand exactly what was expected of her, and fight her way back to Marinos, come Hades or Styxwater.

“I consent to the will of the gods.”

 

The priestess led Aglaia and Marinos to the outcropping of her dream. While such things were usually conducted only between the priestess and the sacrifice, Aglaia had insisted on her father’s presence.

“You must watch me,” she told him, standing with her back turned to the sharp drop off the cliff. “You have to see me fall so that you know I’m still alive.”

His grip on her hands was likely to leave bruises, but she found it strangely comforting. “You are the joy of my life,” he managed, his voice breaking into a sob.

“And your life will be long yet,” Aglaia assured him. “You’ll see me again. I swear it on the Styx.”

Thunder boomed in the distance.

“That’s a powerful oath,” the priestess warned.

Aglaia turned a stony gaze to the woman who would officiate her sacrifice. “I keep my word.”

The priestess turned to Marinos. “I am sorry, my friend. But it is time.”

Aglaia extracted her hands from her father’s and allowed the priestess to guide her to the edge of the cliff. “Keep your back turned,” the older woman suggested. “You don’t need to see the drop.”

“I’ve hiked every outcropping around the village,” Aglaia retorted. “I’m quite familiar with this drop.”

She spread her arms wide and directed her thoughts to the gods. _Don’t you dare make me a liar._

And with a deep breath, she let herself fall backwards over the precipice.


End file.
